


Modern Musketeers and Other One Shots

by Bluebellstar



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:41:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22388131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluebellstar/pseuds/Bluebellstar
Summary: A collection of my modern Musketeers one shots so I don't spam the listings with my work.Unrelated stories unless stated. Will undoubtedly feature both Trevilieu and Milathos.NOT TREVILIEU YET, I'm just tagging it for the future.
Relationships: Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu/de Tréville (Trois Mousquetaires)
Kudos: 55





	Modern Musketeers and Other One Shots

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this one was a fic opening that i thought of but never really went anywhere. I like it though, so I'll post it here.
> 
> On an unrelated note, I am apparently trash for this fandom.

Deep in the hearts of everyone fortunate enough to work or visit at the Palais Royale, there were three sounds, seemingly innocuous in and of themselves, but that taken together called for the immediate evacuation of the near vicinity. The very safety of the innocent working bystanders depended on it. One might argue that the very safety of France depended on it also, but that would be overly fanciful, even for the passionate country. Those three sounds? The swish of a red velvet coat on the cobblestones, raucous laughter, and Queen. Not Her Royal Highness, Queen Anne of France, but the band - the English one.

You're My Best Friend blared insolently from the stereo in a hastily cobbled together squadroom. In this squadroom, the laughter was replaced by the next and unfortunately far more catastrophic factor: arguing. Men in immaculate red and black uniforms clustered near the entrance, glaring at the scruffier men in fleur-de-lis imprinted leather. Whatever their personal musical preferences, the soldiers of the Red Guard were swift in their move to silence any outbreaks of Queen within the work chambers of the palais. Naturally, this action was made infinitely more difficult due to the singular efforts of the Musketeers. It was often said that if the two factions ever cooperated, nothing would ever stand in their way. Unfortunately, it was one of the incontrovertible facts of life in France that hell would freeze over before a Red Guard would ever willingly work with a Musketeer, or visa versa. It took mere seconds from the appearance of the Red Guard for the glaring to turn into argument. Angry French echoed off the stone walls, echoing out into the corridors and courtyards at a volume rivalling the ear-bursting strains of Queen's Greatest Hits. Such events were regrettably common in the recent weeks, the few remaining Palais occupants in the area barely even blinking at the renewed outburst. Until, of course, the yelling became intersperced with the ominous notes of shattering wood and glass.  
______________

The merest whisper of swishing velvet silenced the argument. Seconds later, a junior musketeer's hand reached timidly out and silenced the music as well. Pleased, or at least mildly less likely to sentence them all to death and the Bastille, a shadow separated from the wall. He had almost hawk-like features, a slight (one might tentatively lean towards frail but not if they valued their lives) frame, and the glimmer of such intelligence in his red-rimmed cold blue eyes that spoke of a mind constantly outstripping the intellectual planes of everyone surrounding him. It was infinitely clear that he was both far too busy and intelligent to deal with the plebian squabbles brought so rudely to his attention. It was also abundantly clear that he was Someone. A very important someone. His extravagant red velvet coat looked more akin to a cloak, swishing elegantly about a three-piece black suit that could singlehandedly bail out a failing economy. A few brave rays of sunlight dared brush against the spectre, highlighting the deceptively soft down of his greying hair, caressing the dark circles above painfully sharp cheekbones, gliding across a rather sinister goatee, and arcing off the ornate golden cross that hung around his neck. He was a man of God, perhaps, but certainly one of power; his very being screamed the fact. The secondary door thundered open, a loud voice echoing into the silence.

"What in God's name is going on in here?!" The voice was followed by its owner, another man of obvious power, one who stopped just inside the room and glared daggers at the red coated man as if everything that had gone wrong was solely of his doing. Where his opponent was tall and painfully thin, he was slightly shorter (not even by an irritating inch), and more muscular, with softer blue eyes and a well-maintained beard. The plain black trousers, royal blue shirt and brown leather jacket did absolutely nothing to hide the deadliness that this man possessed. Where his opponent was deadly with his intellect, this man was deadly with his body; two sides of the coin that served France with everything they had. Visibly stopping himself from glaring at the Red Man, he inclined his head in a shadow of respect. "Eminence." His Grand Eminence, Cardinal Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu, the First Minister, Spymaster, and Cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church. The most feared and arguably most powerful person in all of France. Richelieu inclined his head in infinitesimal acknowledgement of the greeting.  
"Treville." Comte Jean-Armand du Peyrer de Treville, Captain of the King's Royal Musketeers. The man personally in charge of the king's security and the security of the royal household - with the exception, of course, of Richelieu's Red Guards. It was the worst kept secret in the palais that Richelieu and Treville despised each other. That description, Richelieu had been known to diplomatically murmur (during his kinder and more truthful moments), was entirely too kind to describe the level of animosity and enmity between the two, and thus between the Red Guards and the Musketeers. "Captain Jussac" Richelieu murmured, never needing to speak louder. Jussac flickered his gaze to the shattered chair before him, head bowed in a shamed apology.  
"Athos? Aramis? Porthos?" Treville invited, somewhat louder than his rival. Both were fed up with the bickering of their subordinates, reflecting badly, of course, on their reputations and the warning the King had given both after the last incident (Treville, of course, would be more likely to label the Seine-side brawl a fiasco, but Richelieu had always had a knack for diplomacy and smudging the truth).  
"They started it" D'Artagan muttered petulantly, glaring at the Red Guards. His Eminence raised a delicate eyebrow.  
"Indeed?" Richelieu murmured smoothly, hands in perfect Cardinal pose. "My Guards acted without provocation, I assume. Attacking you on their own grounds. And on your first day back from suspension after your unfortunate bathe in the Seine." He dipped his head in a harsh mockery of apology. "You have my most humble apologies" he continued silkily. If the Musketeers were lesser men, they would have gulped. Treville growled, glaring as if he would like to bounce his subordinate's head off the nearest wall.  
"Nobody is laying the blame solely at the feet of your Guards, Your Eminence" he assured him, looking as though he were sucking lemons.  
"No?" Richelieu's sarcasm was deadly. "Captain Jussac, surely you admit that you came here with the intent to attack these defenceless, innocent Musketeers?" Jussac showed he was a wiser man than D'Artagnan and said nothing on the matter. He did, however, bow deeply and murmur an apology. Very smart man. Richelieu was almost proud of his Captain. Treville, on the other hand, had a worrying flush beginning to creep up his neck. In the delicate game the rivals played, d'Artagnan had unwittingly handed Richelieu this round on a silver platter. Richelieu turned to the Musketeers, his coat swirling around him. It was an effortlessly dramatic pose, one that enhanced the otherworldly attractiveness of the Cardinal. Still, his sharp gaze pierced the wrong-doers like a hundred swords. "You are surely aware that fighting is forbidden on Palais grounds, and if the King were to hear of this, it would cause him great distress." The Cardinal tutted sadly. "His beloved Musketeers brawling like common criminals."  
"You have made your point, Cardinal" Treville uttered through gritted teeth. Richelieu favoured him with a cold smile.  
"Have I?" A note of musing entered that quiet voice. Those assembled took it for the threat it was. "I trust that I have." With the merest wave of an elegant hand, Richelieu sent the Red Guards filing shamefaced from the temporary squadroom. He inclined his head once more to Treville, their gazes briefly locking with an intensity too strong for the moment. "Good day to you, Monsieurs." As Richelieu swept dramatically out, he heard Treville growl in sheer, exasperated fury.  
"Why must it always be you four?!"

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
